So Leaf and I entered the woods. The paths grew narrower and were littered with trash everywhere, along with objects that would later be useful in battle—medicinal plants and many other items we came across. She told me which way to go, but even she couldn't remember the route very well, so perhaps we'd get lost from time to time.
The air grew heavier as we advanced. The tree crowns closed like hands hiding the sky; light filtered through in blades, cutting shadows on the ground. With every step the trails tightened, and the forest forced us to choose, as if it were a labyrinth made of roots and forgotten objects. Among the undergrowth were remnants of previous lives: rotten chairs, empty frames, bent spoons, and books whose pages were stuck together by humidity. All of it hovered in the silence like a buried city that did not want to be found.
Leaf buzzed by my side, hopping from place to place, collecting shards of sparkle and pointing out what might be useful. Sometimes she stopped and frowned—yes, Leaf frowned—trying to remember some fork in the path that, she said, she had "forgotten on the map." Her memory was a puzzle with missing pieces, so our routes became a mix of certainties and guesses. We got lost at times, we laughed, we argued in silence, and then we found each other again. It was exhausting and beautiful at once.
Leaf would tell me, in her excited voice, the names of the creatures that inhabited those trails: Mandragora, dark fairies, and those plants called Alameda Alraune. They sounded like nicknames pulled from a book meant to frighten children; in reality, they were real, eager threats.
The three monsters that prowled the forest were called Mandragora, dark fairies, and plants known as Alameda Alraune.
There was no poetry in those names the first time we faced the Mandragora. It was a root-creature with a mouth, a plant that sang in an old, thick tone; its lament could numb a warrior's legs. The dark fairies, small and swift, looked like fireflies that had learned to bite; they swarmed you and stole your calm like someone snatching a purse. The Alameda Alraune were traps dressed as beauty: flowers that lured with perfume and then closed like iron hands. With every clash, with every fall, we gathered souls; those souls, as Leaf had said, would help me level up thanks to the rabbit.
We fought each of them again and again, collecting souls along the way thanks to these monsters.
Repetition was not tedious: it was learning. We learned to read the Mandragora's movements and to stay away when its song began. We learned that the dark fairies were fast but very weak to physical attacks, and that the Alameda Alraune released a sweet scent before attacking—and that patience and posture were more valuable than ferocity.
Leaf laughed a lot at my mistakes, which both angered and calmed me; her laughter was sharp but tender, like someone tossing out a joke to cover fear.
After several fights we reached a wider area inside the forest, a dump that looked like a waiting room for broken things. Clothes, overturned tables, lamps hanging from frayed wires—everything formed a landscape that reminded me of a dream that never ends.
It was barely possible to walk without stumbling over something. Among so much trash we found supplies: sacks of dried herbs that smelled of life, bandages folded with silvered threads, jars of greenish liquids that promised to heal and mend. We kept the useful things with the feeling of people scavenging treasures among ruins.
It was there, among a pile of filthy cushions, that I saw him seated: a man sunk into an old sofa, as if his body had adhered to the fabric. As I got closer, I noticed he breathed with difficulty, and his voice was rough like old paper.
I only approached a little to speak, but the man took the initiative.
—Oh, an adventurer? I can barely breathe in this trash-filled wood, forgive my jargon. My name is Adaman of Andor. Accept this as a token of our meeting...
His speech was abrupt, but there was an honesty to his words that smelled like truth. He did not want the conversation to last; with a slow motion he pulled from a bag a large mineral fragment: heavy, dark, with bright veins. He offered it as if it were a coin. I thanked him awkwardly, uncomfortable with the formalities.
—Thank you very much, you didn't have to do that, we're just strangers— I said.
Adaman shook his head and fell silent again. His gaze was lost in nowhere, as if he were watching memory instead of the present.
Leaf fluttered around him, asking rapid-fire questions that he ignored with a sad smile. The exchange was brief; his gesture felt like an omen: people who appear and disappear in the forest as if they were pieces on an abandoned chessboard.
We continued walking, collecting breadcrumbs someone or something had dropped. It was strange, as if a child had rushed through here—or as if someone wanted to mark a path for those who came after.
The crumbs led us to an extinguished campfire. Something in my chest told me to approach; I could not explain why, only a feeling, a warm impulse.
It was odd to see such a thing, but following and gathering the crumbs I found, down a small path before continuing, another extinguished fire. For some reason I felt I should at least get close to it, so I decided to approach—and when I touched it, the fire ignited on its own as if my mere existence were enough to light it instantly.
The flame leapt with a whisper, without asking permission. I sat and let the heat reach my hands. Leaf, with a solemn gesture, perched nearby as one preparing for a ritual. The campfire seemed to recognize the need: it was not mere warmth; it was confirmation. I breathed, and for the first time in a long time I felt it was not only a mechanical cycle of death; there was direction, however faint.
Leaf spoke in that wise-child tone she uses when giving lessons:
—You know, you've picked up some very important signs, haven't you? Poor children, they'll never find their way back home.
—What are you talking about, Leaf? —I asked—. In a place this dangerous there shouldn't be children.
She shrugged and let out a strange chuckle. Her jokes were odd sometimes, and her observations even stranger. Despite that, her presence gave me confidence; she was the compass that smiled even though its needle was broken.
We followed the crumbs until we came upon a huge two-story house, half-consumed by mist. The fog clung to the wood and forced us to touch it to get through.
At the door we knocked a couple of times but no one answered, though we could hear some noise inside, so we decided to go in and see what was happening. When we entered the main room we found two enormous monsters there: one red and the other blue, and, for some strange reason, they could speak normally.
The scene inside was macabre and grotesque, like a tragic tale. The blue monster spoke first, with a voice that tasted of melted butter and rusty metal:
—Who are you..? We don't let anyone into our house..
Its face was a disfigured poem; its eyes shone with surprise and greed. It did not take long to realize what we were: fresh meat, an easy target.
—Ohh I get it~... You must be our post! It's almost too good to be true! —said the other, the red one, with a huge grin and teeth that had never met a toothbrush.
Gretel, the red one, seemed less talkative, but the glee in its tone made my skin crawl.
—Hihihi...God, thank you for the meal before us! We are happy! It's time to eat!
I couldn't listen any longer. The blue one raised its enormous axe, the red one drew a curved blade like a crescent moon. Leaf summoned her magic with a cry of light; she appeared in the room like a flash. I didn't fully understand how calling her worked—only that when I said her name she came. Among her virtues, she trusted my voice to reach her.
The blue one—who later introduced himself as Hansel with a growl—attacked first. His axe sank into the floor with a blow that shook the room. Gretel advanced with heavy steps, sniffing each movement as if it were meat on display. Leaf fired a small, playful jolt that barely grazed Gretel. Its skin was hard; my sword met the resistance of stone.
I grabbed my sword and moved quickly, tracing arcs that cut the room. I spun and managed to place myself behind Hansel; I tried a deep cut into his back, but my steel only barely nicked him. When his blood did appear, it seemed cold and slow. In a sudden turn, Hansel faced me with sickly red eyes and, at that same instant, Gretel delivered a blow I barely dodged. Fortune made Hansel take the full brunt of an attack; his arm was wounded, almost torn off by the force of the allied strike.
I saw the opportunity: they were not synchronized; they did not trust each other enough. I took advantage of the only thing I could: their discord.
—Leaf, I need those two to hurt each other; our sword and magic are nothing against them— I said, panting.
—I understand, how do we do that? —she asked as she positioned herself behind a curtain of dust she raised.
—We'll pit them against each other —I said with the clarity of someone who sees a single way out—. If we can get them to attack each other instead of us, we can wear them down. It doesn't matter how—just try it, or we'll die here.
Leaf nodded and rejoined the fight with renewed determination. I began to provoke them, using flamboyant moves and feints to cloud their rage. Leaf, from the air, began to lure Gretel with plays of light while I, with calculated strikes, pushed Hansel toward his companion. The strategy was simple: create confusion and passion.
When the two were close enough, I launched a direct strike to Hansel's abdomen. The blow, as always, was small, but the effect showed in the choreography of the fight. Both raised their weapons at the same time, and in that proximity, instead of striking us, their weapons met—iron against iron—and strength betrayed them.
Perhaps, being monsters, their intelligence had greatly diminished, causing them to cut each other deeply and die at the same time.